the echo of the burst of a shell

765. Body Bags

2012-01-29T01:49:00.004-05:00

Body Bags

How am I to decide whose parts are whose?
The mortuary Marines will need
to piece together the remains,
and what's never recovered
will be shaded black on their paperwork.
But there are so many parts,
and I can’t tell who's Afghani,
or civilian,
or a brother I loved.
I pick up the blackened fingers
in the gasoline mud,
and the pieces of the charbroiled carcass
that don’t crumble when I lift them;
I grab the thigh-less legs,
boots still attached,
and the jawbone.
I hold the body bag over my shoulder,
unimpressed by the weight
of what remains
of mighty men.

Photo attribution: http://www.flickr.com/people/nukeit1/

All written content ©Dario DiBattista 2012. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

764. Cycle of Operations

2012-01-28T16:24:00.003-05:00

Cycle of Operations

Cocking clean adolescence,
Feeding murder machine,
Chambering tri-colored rage,
Locking sights on the scene.

Firing closed system,
Unlocking oiled hate,
I, extract stories of spine;
Eject soul, at a cyclical rate.

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2012. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

763. Facebook and the Political Process

2012-01-24T05:44:00.003-05:00

These are the thoughts in my head when I scroll over my "newsfeed" these days:

Almost any political graphic to me is just pure propaganda. And I'm a tad annoyed how some people think a single image, a few "facts," or a quote out of context is going to change my vote on anything.

I know how to read books and do research. I've taken the time to contemplate political thought and theory and see firsthand how government works. I consider the main issues that are important to our nation and their possible solutions. If your argument is so simple it can be articulated in the ways above, it's probably not the best argument you can make.

I think we need to get back to having real political conversations and real political discourse instead of always trying to shock or gimmick each other into believing what our side wants the other side to believe. Democracy shouldn't be about bullying and manipulation and cherry-picking facts -- it should be about stimulating reason and promoting realistic progress.

I'm not saying don't participate in the political process in the ways above if you so choose and it makes you feel like you have a voice. I'm just saying, maybe there are better and more effective ways to communicate your beliefs. Maybe, if you challenge yourself enough to be able to articulate your beliefs as well as you can, you'll find your ideas will change and your understanding will grow and evolve :-)

This blog post is not directed at any one of my friends in particular. I'm just sharing my beliefs like many of you are, too. I won't get offended if you won't ;-)

762. Finally Moving On

2011-12-03T13:02:00.002-05:00

If you've ever wondered why my blogs are numbered, it's because I've literally written this many blogs since I first started in 2005 (and many more for other sites). This blog, my blogger blog, starts at 701. The previous ones were on my myspace.

Anyway, here's your last chance to read all the embarrassing stuff I wrote when I was crazy after coming home from war. January 1, 2012, I will finally delete my myspace. You laugh, but blogging changed my life. I needed writing.

www.myspace.com/theechooftheburstofashell

761. Dario's Guest Blog for the USMC!

2011-11-20T09:52:00.006-05:00

You can see the post on the Marines official blog here!

Why Do We Celebrate Today? (The Marine Corps Birthday)

It’s likely been happening all day that some of my friends on Facebook have looked at my page and become confused. It’s not his birthday, is it? Dario’s born in December right? Christmas isn’t it? How could I forget that?

This is a scene that has been happening all morning and will continue happening all day as we Marines take over the web, the airwaves, and a significant portion of all telephone communications to wish our brothers and sisters a “Happy birthday.”

Yes, this is a scene that is playing out all over America, and all over the world. Two old salty gunnys from Brooklyn are probably sitting in a park today, wearing scarlet and gold jackets, their Marine tattoos wrinkled underneath, and reminiscing on celebrating the Marine Corps’ Birthday in the chilled landscape of Korea.

A World War II Marine is in D.C. today with his wife, shrinking in stature underneath the epic Iwo Jima Memorial, the giant statue commemorating the flag-raising on Mount Suribachi during that famous battle, our national colors flapping in the November breeze. Hand in hand, she’ll kiss him on the cheek and say, “Happy birthday, love.”

Vietnam Marines are at their local VFW hall, motorcycles parked outside, mugs raised, trying not to spill too much beer on their beards as their birthday celebrations continue on.

Younger Marines, veterans of the recent wars, are tweeting their love for their Corps and texting their buddies, “Hey, bro. Thanks for watching my back.”

And a lieutenant in Helmand province, Afghanistan, today is concluding his patrol brief by saying to his platoon, “Let’s make this happen. Happy birthday, Marines.” They’ll lock and load and continue the fight. They’ll carry our honor on this day.

So why do we do this? Why do we celebrate with such fervency the day the Corps was born by an act of the Second Continental Congress? Why does this date linger in our minds?

It’s because of our camaraderie. It’s because of the forged bonds of hardship. It’s because we are not as lean and not as mean, but still Marines. It’s because of that lieutenant and his platoon. We do it for those of us who are no longer here to raise their glasses in celebration, and our friends who will die tomorrow. Maybe we do it because, even at 236-years-old, we’re happy to report that our Corps still lives on, as powerful, professional, and determined to protect freedom as ever.

And we’ll be here until there is no enemy anymore. Just peace.

Semper Fidelis,

Dario “D-Boh” DiBattista

Iraq War Veteran
Corporal, USMCR 2001 – 2007
www.dariodibattista.com

All photos below courtesy of LCpl Michael McMaugh, 1st Marine Division Combat Camera

RIP Gunnery Sergeant Fontecchio (above image)

760. That Kind of Blog

2011-11-19T23:16:00.003-05:00

Well, years later from first getting into this whole writing thing, I would hope I'd be past these self-aggrandizing and self-absorbed kind of blog posts; but I do think it's important for a writer to bare their soul from time to time. And there's some things I just need to share tonight. It's not for you as much as it is for myself; but maybe you can relate to my problems, too? Maybe you'll be comforted by me talking about my failures and sadness? (Yes, dear reader, it's that kind of post.) Either way, you've been warned about this blogs' content.

Here we go:

It's a Saturday night, 11:18 pm, I'm all alone. And for the first time in half a decade that really bothers me. I've felt the tinge of a possible depression building up for quite a while now. I feel like it's being exacerbated by the fact I'm 27, almost 28, and no one I want wants to be with me. Rejection's an old hat I wear with comfort, unfortunately. But every now and then -- like every half a decade -- someone new comes along and makes me feel like I'm possibly worth a damn. The kind of woman whose smile becomes my purpose for living. And when she gives it to me, well, shit, it all suddenly makes sense. Damn, Dario. If you can make this angel smile, then you're doing something right, man!

And around these rare women, I feel like all the struggles, all the mistakes, all of my faith in something better, have been paid for and rewarded. But then she pulls away from me -- disinterested, tenuous, afraid of getting too close, and maybe with some other boy. And I feel like the fist of karma has punched me again. How long will I pay for my past actions?

How long until my penance has been paid and I can be happy?

I've struggled forever it seems. Maybe I'm a masochist. Maybe I'm not fated for a positive life. Maybe everything I've built my life around has been a big fucking farce, because I thought my dreams would lead me to a different place.

Sometimes I just wish it was always black. At least then, I'd always know what to expect.

759. End Radio Silence

2011-10-29T12:40:00.005-04:00

Somewhere in spring 2010, for the first time, writing wasn't fun for me anymore. I had just invested much of my soul in telling the macabre story of a dedicated female mortician, and suddenly, I didn't have anything left. My friend and mentor Cathy Alter told me the obvious then: "Dario, just take a break if you need it."

So that's where I've been. I've done that twice before. This is my third time. If you're reading this at all, I'm going to guess that you actually do care about my writing career, so I'll keep going...

It's been a tough couple months for me, despite my successes. I've got a couple small pieces coming out in various journals soon, etc., but my goal has always been book publication. Unfortunately, nothing less will ever satisfy me. And it seems -- for reasons I'll never understand -- the more I publish, the more I get exposure in the media, the more I make a name for myself and build up my CV, the farther away that dream becomes, which is mystifying.

I suppose I could blame a million different factors -- the economy, the rapidly changing writer's marketplace, my agent, etc. -- but I do need to absorb most of the blame for not meeting my goal yet. Sometimes that's a spiritual process more than anything. I've got the degree and I've got the tools, but how much longer can I keep doing this? How much longer can I seek success in an industry that by all practical accounts is rapidly shrinking and failing horribly? Am I masochist? Do I really believe in what I have to say?

These are the questions I've been asking myself the past few months. And I guess, in reality, all that matters is the last question.

And I'm happy to answer it with, yes, I do.

Thanks again for reading.

Much love,

Dario
www.dariodibattista.com

758. Monotony

2011-10-29T12:30:00.002-04:00

Monotony

Through my headphones, the sticks are clacking
against a metal rim. Above,
the black and white clock tries to measure
a thing which cannot be measured;
and the pull-cords of a fan, tap together
under the apathetic blade spin.
Through the window,
the smoking man’s dog’s tail
wags like a retarded metronome;
patio blinds sway as a perturbed pendulum;
eyes cast glances but nothing gets seen.

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

757. Hey, Kid, Welcome Back from Fallujah -- Here's 70% of Your Education for Free

2011-08-14T16:16:00.007-04:00

Recent landmark legislation and proposed policy directives such a President Obama’s “jobs initiatives for veterans” and the yearly overhauls to the Post 9/11 G.I. Bill, have certainly gone a long way in helping our millions of returning war veterans. No doubt, though, in the current political climate of debt crisis talks and reduced national credit scores, a certain segment of the population will bemoan all the attention on veterans. Maybe rightfully so.

Or is it?

When I tell random people of the educational benefits I’m receiving from serving as a Reservist during wartime, I almost always get the same response: “Gee, that must be nice.”

I kindly remind them of donning a gas mask and hiding underground from Saddam’s surface-to-surface missiles in Kuwait in 2003, or about dodging mortars and snipers in Fallujah a year later for a second tour, or racing through IEDs on the Syrian border of Iraq, and that tends to silence them or change their minds.

But whether the overall benefit is fair or not isn’t the point, though. Imagine, as a civilian, you took a full-time job that promised you two weeks of vacation a year, and then despite your diligent work ethic or your numerous instances of recognition and personal awards, they reduced those 14 days by 70%. I bet you’d be pretty upset, yes?

Everyone who joins the military is promised money for college as a condition of their honorable service. It’s a benefit – again, whether fair or not – that we as a nation have decided is necessary to entice an all-volunteer force. And I think anyone can appreciate and understand this comparison about benefits between the military and civilian workplaces.

It’s what was promised, and promises are supposed to be upheld. And our leaders have made the new promise as a result of these new wars, these unconventional wars that have dragged on for almost a decade and caused Reservists to deploy at unprecedented rates, that “no soldier should be left behind.”

But is this really the case as far as Reservists go? Let me take you to a conversation I overheard in my current higher education classroom.

Air Force veteran to another student: “I was supposed to deploy once, but I got pregnant and didn’t have to go.”

Student: “Oh, that probably would’ve been very scary.”

Air Force Veteran: “Yeah, but I didn’t have to go any other time because of that, and now I’m here getting my education for free.”

I didn’t say anything; just sat in my seat and shook my head. Here is this other veteran bragging about how she didn’t have to deploy, but at all state institutions of higher learning she gets 100% tuition and fees covered under the Post 9/11 G.I. Bill – and I only get 70%, no matter if I’m attending just a community college.

Overseas, as a Reservist, I was attached to the 3rd Battalion Seventh Marine Regiment, which is recognized as one of the baddest, roughest, and most elite units in the Marine Corps. My civil affairs team even acted as a security detachment for their battalion commander. One of the Marines from that deployment, Corporal Dunham, was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor after jumping on a grenade to save his brethren – the first time for a Marine since Vietnam. 70% college tuition reimbursement is what I get for my Combat Action Ribbon and Certificate of Commendation from that time.

And if you were to suppose that my experiences as a Reservist weren’t typical of our “weekend warriors,” you would be wrong. Many Reservists fulfill critical jobs – civil affairs, military police, infantry forces – that are often almost continuously deployed and put in just as much harm as the full-time warriors, with whom, they work alongside. At times during these wars, Reservists have made up almost 50% of the entire forces deployed into a combat zone.

Why wouldn’t we give these combat veterans (that’s the key distinction I’m making here – “Combat”) the same benefit we’ve given the active forces? Historically, it’s been quantifiable that for every one dollar our nation invests in educating our veterans, seven dollars are returned to national economy. And no one’s taken the time yet to measure the other unintended benefits that can be granted by giving our traumatized and mentally unhealthy veterans a chance to attend college as – among many other reasons – a temporary buffer to reintegrating into the civilian work world too quickly. My college experiences after war have certainly helped me get mentally well again, and given me the time recoup, even now as I prepare for the workforce one day.

No doubt, the times are lean, the wars are unpopular, and the average American is rubbing their foreheads raw with anxiety and worry for the future. But we owe our vets, including all Reservists who’ve seen combat, regardless. It’s the commitment we’ve made to them. It’s the promise we’ve made to them.

Me, waiting on more equitable education incentives for Reservists.

All written content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

756. Things I didn't Think I Would Ever Need Ten Years Ago That I Need A Lot of Now

2011-07-18T01:25:00.011-04:00

It's no secret that my ten year reunion is coming up fast (fall 2011 -- class of '01, baby!). And well, that's pretty gnarly I guess, but, like anyone else, I can't help myself from assessing my overall life ten years later as compared to when I was a wee chap of just 17-years-old.

So, anyway, here's my list of things I didn't think I would ever need a lot of, that I need a lot of now. Maybe you'd like to add some items, too?

1. Dollars. Yep, like most of us twenty-somethings, I'm discovering that college costs continue to rise and the opportunities for making as much or more money as our parents, aren't really there anymore. Add onto that a bleak economic outlook and reality, and well, damn -- I really miss those cheap school meals (yum... cafeteria cheese). I'm staying in college so I never have to pay back my loans. That's a good idea, right?

Flashback: anyone else remember when premium gas cost a buck fifty? Gee-bus. Now we get excited about $3.68 regular gas.

2. 15. As in 15 hours of exercise a week -- and that's not even enough to actually lose weight. I just ran a half marathon and I'm still about 20 pounds above my ideal weight(which is 45 pounds over my high school weight!). I miss not doing anything physical for several weeks and only having to do a sit up or two in the morning for a few days to get back in shape. I also miss eating an entire pot of macaroni a day.

Flashback: Gym class. I wish an hour of activity was still mandatory in my day.

3. 23.04 gigabytes of music on my I-tunes. I remember when I used to get high and just go to the Double T Diner and listen to the same three songs over and over again. Not that I ever used drugs much or do at all now, I'm just saying. Moreover, I used to have one mix cassette tape -- the Best of Allman Bros, Skynyrd, and ol' Led Zeppelin -- that I listened to in my '73 Ford Maverick all summer long. Some of you used to make fun of me I bet. I still have the Mav :-) (And no, it doesn't work. Weren't you listening? I'm broke, san. Need an engine. Donations?)

Flashback: Remember finally being able to park in the senior lot instead of Ebenezer?

4. 21, or the average number of gifts I have to buy a year for weddings, house-warming parties, nieces and nephews, other people's kids, master's graduations, etc. I like helping people out and being generous when I can, but my part-time adjunct position that I was rewarded with in exchange for my 60,000 dollars worth of college education, only pays about 14K a year (not complaining, simply stating facts). I don't know how many more crappy poems I can write, frame, and disguise as gifts.

Examples:
Roses are red. Please stop having kids.
Violets are blue. Divorce is expensive; don't get married.

Flashback: When buying your friend some cookies or an ice cream bar from the vending machines meant more than a gift card to Home Depot or a toaster oven.

5. 1,000,000 seconds. The number of seconds thus far I've been doubled-over in laughter when remembering that I graduated from high school with a 1.88 GPA, but now I teach college. Ha ha, suckers. Well, maybe I'm the sucker. I bet you all had fun vacations while I was sitting in summer school.

And here's a photo of my going away party for the Marines in May 2001!!!

(Perry Hall High School Alumni, all.)

755. Best Letter Ever

2011-06-13T23:24:00.002-04:00

On May 26th, I talked to high-schoolers. This is some of the feedback I got.

6/2/11

Dear Mr. Dario,

My name is "John Doe" and I'm an alcoholic. Psych, I'm kidding. I was forced to type you a thank you letter by my mean English teacher. Not that I didn't want to because you were funny and informing. By the way, my English teacher picks on me.

You presenting was very informing because you're very inspiring plus I like your beard. And also, my teacher is mean and she beats up on me and makes me cry -- this is all mentally, never physically. Also, you should add me on X-Box live if you play Call of Duty. My name is ... and I'm going into the big leagues.

P.S. You got balls, my friend, for going into the Marines :-)

Love your random audience member,

"John Doe"

754. My Personal Essay for The Washingtonian

2011-06-01T23:54:00.003-04:00

This is just a snippet. To read the entire article please click the blog headline! And please consider donating to the Anderson-Snyder memorial which is linked to at the end of the story. Semper Fi.

...On a Wednesday night, I finished my shift at the restaurant a little early. That was good—it meant more time for drinking. I stopped at a coworker’s apartment to toss back shots of Jack Daniel’s. Sufficiently buzzed, I drove to the Treehouse, a bar near where I was living in the Baltimore suburbs.

The bartender stood in an opposite corner of the bar chatting with a pretty girl. On the TV above him, a story flashed about a Marine who had died. I tried to read the captions, but my mind was hazy and my eyes were tired. About a year had passed since I’d come home from Iraq in 2004.

The bartender came over without a newly poured beer. He stared at me, rubbing his palms. “Hey, Dario,” he said. “This woman over here just had her husband killed in Iraq. Could you . . . .” He didn’t need to finish.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I took the long path toward her, curving around the length of the bar. I stepped beside her and she looked at me, confused. A few of her friends were with her; they watched me, too.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m a lance corporal in the Marines. I heard about your loss. I’m here for you.” She closed her eyes. Then she dropped her head into my chest and hugged me. I had no idea what I should do.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

The Marine Corps is small. There are only a few degrees of separation between any two people who wear the olive-drab green. There was a chance I knew her husband.

“Victoria Anderson,” she said. “My husband was Lance Corporal Norm Anderson...”

753. Ode to the Education Connection Girl

2011-05-23T14:44:00.004-04:00

Ode to the Education Connection Girl

You make me want to better myself –
go online, take a test,
sit in PJs in my closed-door room,
trace triangles with Pythagoras,
measure meter and homecoming with Homer.

I’d go to your restaurant with my AA degree
and a million dollars more
*over a lifetime
and tip you well.

Would you sing to me then?
Could we get connected?

I’d use my degree in audio engineering
to turn your siren’s voice into platinum.

All written content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

752. Answering Hater Mail

2011-05-18T22:58:00.003-04:00

I'm not really this petty. But, given that the dude who wrote this comment is a former Gunnery Sergeant, and I don't have to take his crap anymore (now that I'm not in the service anymore), I just had to post this open letter.

From: Anonymous, a comment left on the link to my Washington Post op-ed on the "Marines" official facebook page.

"This story is really disapointing. Did anyone read this before sharing the link? I really expected better from a major publication, let alone someone trained in writing. The story starts with teasers that are not referenced anywhere else... in the story and then rambles on and on. I sure agree with supporting and celebrating the military victory but am disapointed to see a Marine join the ranks of the mainstream media with misdirecting headlines and marginal writing."

RE: Your comments about my article on the "Marines" facebook page.

Hey Gunny, I'm not a member of the mainstream media -- I'm a freelance writer. It's like a being a contractor for the military; you're not in the service you just provide a skill they need. They called me and asked me to write this piece.

Also, for the record, I didn't get to pick the headline.

As far as your "teasers" that you mention not being carried over, you'll notice if you will, that my story begins with big news related to bin Laden (and me listening to it on the AM radio and reacting) and ends with other big news about bin Laden (and me listening to it on the AM radio and reacting). It's called a narrative arc with a circular structure.

But thank you for your feedback. Next article I write, I'll be sure to beat the audience over the head and write more simply so it's easier to understand.

Sorry to disappoint you.

Semper Fi,

Dario "D-Boh" DiBattista
USMCR Corporal 2001 - 2007

751. Check Out My Op-Ed for The Washington Post!

2011-05-10T15:28:00.015-04:00

(Click the blog headline to read the entire story!)

...When the news came of bin Laden’s death, I felt numb at first. Rather than exult, I could only mourn my friends and the other Americans who lost their lives. My roommate — my best friend and another Marine veteran — suggested we do a shot to celebrate bin Laden’s killing.

We had only imported alcohol on hand, so we chose a couple of ounces of rum from Puerto Rico instead of French liqueurs or vodkas. We continued watching the news: the slips in verbiage that confused “Obama” and “Osama”; the bold, galvanizing speech of the commander in chief; the crowds gathering on the streets of New York and at the gates of the White House. I knew, despite living in Towson, that I had to be at the president’s home, too.

I raced down I-295 in my Lincoln and scanned the different AM stations. Yes, he is dead. Shot in the head. SEAL Team 6. A good and historic day.

I parked several blocks from the White House and could hear the cheers reverberating. I saw cars zipping through the cross streets, honking their horns, sometimes a passenger’s hand holding the American flag out the window.

The scene outside the White House felt like a big hug. It didn’t matter that I had come alone; I was here with a thousand of my fellow Americans. And we were wild with patriotism, even cheering the cops who were trying to corral us away from the fence...

PHOTO BLOG OF THE SCENE OUTSIDE THE WHITE HOUSE (all photos by me):

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

750. Watching AMC after Coming Home from Helmand Province, Afghanistan

2011-04-13T15:46:00.004-04:00

Watching AMC after Coming Home from Helmand Province, Afghanistan

Travis Bickle, I feel you: deadbeat Marine
just returned from ‘Nam,
can’t sleep because of the dreams,
but you still need a job.

Like you, my parents don’t know my career
is a falsification of time;
37 rejections so far, I’ve sold
not one word of my rhyme.

We policed the third world but scum
lives on our own welcome mats:
pimps and publishers,
drug-dealers and Democrats.

I will pull up and push up,
calligraph and fist pump;
until, like you,
I’m ready, too.

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

749. Even When You're Not Here

2011-04-01T03:34:00.003-04:00

I can feel your hand woven into mine,
I can see your regal face so fine,
I can stare into your wide-eyed gaze,
I can smell your scent that stays,

Even when you’re not here, on my pillow,
Even when you’re not here, on my chest,
Even when you’re not here, right beside me,
Even when you’re not here, though it's best.

I can feel your chest rise and fall,
I can see your cryptic smile,
I can watch your peaceful closed eyes,
I can smell tomorrow morning’s lies,

Even when you’re not here, on my pillow,
Even when you’re not here, on my chest,
Even when you’re not here, right beside me,
Even when you’re not here, though it’s best.

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2011. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

748. Was I Satisfied at Central Connecticut State University?

2011-03-15T14:14:00.004-04:00

This came in the mail the other day: a survey of my undergraduate collegiate experience at Central Connecticut State University (CCSU). I think it will be more fun to answer some of the questions on here.

1. How satisfied are you with your experience at CCSU?

Somewhat Satisfied

3. Which of the following co-curricular activities did you do while at CCSU (Check all that apply)?

Student Club or Organization
Residence Hall Staff
Other non-classroom activity; please specify: 1) Going with underage musicians to a local blues bar, getting them drunk, and playing sweet rock and roll and blues. 2.) Karaoke, every Friday.

6. What do you wish you could have changed about your experience at CCSU?

Fewer girls from Connecticut or New England (no offense, my RA loves). In fact, almost every girl there should have been brought in out-of-state from the South, or Mexico. Also, if maybe somehow, CCSU could have merged with Yale, became a satellite campus, and disqualified the majority of the student body from attending – that would have been cool.

15. How satisfied are you with your CCSU preparation for your current job?

Well, given that I deal with demanding customers at a restaurant (because my degree in political science is mostly worthless here in Maryland where no one’s ever heard of CCSU), my two years of experience as a resident assistant with petulant and uncouth freshmen at CCSU prepared me very well for being humiliated and treated like shit on a daily basis. Thanks, CCSU!

747. Top Ten Ways You Know You're a Writer

2011-02-14T14:33:00.004-05:00

I’ve wanted to start doing lists of top 10s and top 5s forever now. Might as well start here. And the list:

10. You blog more than you jog.

9. You have a favorite pen, which you use until it runs out of ink. If you lose said pen before it gets used, you’re genuinely upset. When it runs out of ink, you’re also genuinely upset.

8. You know that a workshop has nothing to do with Tech Ed or a home improvement project

7. The fact I didn’t use a period in number 8 is driving you nuts.

6. The fact I just used a cliché is also annoying you.

5. Though you really do support and love them, you also secretly hate every other writer on the planet, especially the ones more successful than you.

4. You spend tens of thousands of dollars on an MA or MFA program, knowing that it is unlikely you will ever make that money back with pure writing.

3. A byline in the New Yorker would be just as glorious of day as the day your first child was (or will be) born.

2. Walking through a dark alley is “interesting”; writer’s block is “scary”.

1. You read this entire blog to learn more things about yourself that you already know.

746. A Scene from College

2011-02-09T23:06:00.008-05:00

This will be available to own for free on www.dariodibattista.com soon. Thank you for your patience.

Cheers,

Dario

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2010. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

745. New Year's Eve

2011-01-08T13:20:00.005-05:00

(mostly unedited from my journal)

Why am I up at 3:13 am when I know I will be woken up at nine? Why won't I cut ties with the memories that haunt my thoughts so I can sleep? I've been ready to give my life over to something or someone else three times. The first: I fucked up. The second: I wanted to love her but she just used me for comfort instead, ditching me when inconvenient. The third is my love for writing. I've sacrificed everything for this craft and passion.

But here I am, writing words in a journal just before a New Year when everything is good but still, something is missing.

I'm not sure what it is, so I draw my pen further along each line on the page, left to right -- racing -- for the period that will bring a necessary pause in thought so I can think about something else inane to say.

I guess all I have to say is this: If you have something you love, claim it; hold it against your heart and feel it pulse against you. Don't be like me and hold the real truth and real emotions inside. You've got to fight for love; it digs in its heels when pushed. No one can erase what is real.

Anyone who says otherwise preaches obfuscation and wants you to burn.

744. Red, White, and Dead

2010-12-08T18:53:00.004-05:00

743. Sonnet for Karaoke Night

2010-11-15T02:39:00.005-05:00

742. Camouflaged Wounds: Mother

2010-11-14T17:11:00.000-05:00

The first in a series of documentaries about life after war, this is the story of Tracy Miller, mother of Marine Corporal Nick Ziolkowski who was killed in Fallujah, Iraq.

It is produced by www.notalone.com, which is a resource website for returning veterans and their families. If you are a veteran in crisis or know someone dealing with the challenges of life after war, please visit the website.

Steven Freitas and Dario DiBattista directed this video. If you would like to know more, please email gonowyouareforgiven@yahoo.com

741. Heavy Metal in Trenton

2010-10-11T12:15:00.005-04:00

Blog post removed because I'm seeking its publication. :-)

740. On Smoking

2010-10-08T12:20:00.003-04:00

Here's a fun little exercise for this semester's poetry workshop.

On Smoking

We sat against the brick and mortar wall,
When April’s rain ejected a Spring squall.

We rolled our thumbs over the flint and flame,
The fire arose, intense yet short and tame.

Delighted in its warmth we held above
The tip of the heat our nicotine love.

One puff, two puff, oh God we need some more;
The monkey tells us what we’re craving for.

He’s climbed on top of our backs, never will
Let go: until the tar renders us still.

739. Following the Long Walk Home

2010-09-18T15:15:00.005-04:00

He’s in Nashville now, a stop on his way towards visiting all fifty states. He doesn’t use a small plane, an automobile, or even a bike as his mode of transportation. Ron Zaleski is walking all across America. With his petition in hand, he doesn’t even wear shoes. When there’s no one around to solicit signatures from, sometimes he’ll lay that document down to pick out one inch shards of glass or repair a torn off heel. Passion can’t even begin to describe how fervently he believes in his cause.

59-year-old Zaleski is the founder of the The Long Walk Home, a nonprofit organization that seeks to raise awareness and create solutions for the mental health problems veterans face during and after their service. He wears an impressively-sized sign around his neck on his daily 10 to 15 mile barefoot walk that reads: “18 VETS A DAY COMMIT SUICIDE (‘commit suicide’ in red, bold letters).” A veteran Marine himself, Zaleski’s quest is a very personal one. “I get that sense that everybody that is in the military is related to me in some way,” he believes. “That could be my son, my daughter, my loved one in there.”

And the grief of his walk gets more personal more often than he likes. “The hardest part of this journey for me has been when a car pulls over, and a mother will stand there and cry.” She’ll tell him that “her child came home safe, committed suicide, and then she’ll hold me,” Zaleski shares, also tearing up.

Zaleski joined the Marines in 1970 even though he came from a devoutly catholic lineage and did not believe in killing. His family, he also notes, was “a dysfunctional World War II family.” His father had brought the war home with him as it continued raging within his mind. That rage manifested itself as alcoholism and mental abuse towards his family. Zaleski joined up to intentionally anger his parents in a passive-aggressive kind of way.

But when the orders to go to Vietnam arrived for him and five of his buddies, the reality compelled Zaleski to follow his convictions. He told his commanding officer that the only way he was going was “chained to a helicopter,” and he was willing to face the jail time for his decision. Miraculously, they decided he could stay because of his other critical skills. “I became an office squirt because I could type and had brains,” Zaleski says, emphasizing his Long Island accent and vernacular.

He saw one of those men later. Zaleski asked what happened. “We all got shot and two of us are dead,” his buddy told him. He decided to embrace their sacrifice for freedom -- so he stopped wearing shoes in 1972. Understandably so, people would ask why he didn’t wear shoes and Zaleski would respond combatively, “because I don’t feel like it; you got a problem with dat?”

In 2005, after years of slowly destroying the family business he inherited and a horrible divorce – all problems stemming from his arrogance and bitterness (most likely learned behavior from his father) – a girl asked the same question he had been hearing for the last 33 years. “Why don’t you wear shoes?”

“I had been doing it so long,” Zaleski recalls, “I couldn’t really have an answer. God spoke through that child.” What were you doing? He questioned of himself.

He realized then that he had what he calls “a hollow memorial; a meaningless penance.” Zaleski finally decided to do something tangible to help with the legacy of his fallen friends. So he kept doing what he did – walking shoeless – but he started doing it with a purpose.

Some of the results were unexpected. In Zaleski’s pursuit of getting mandatory PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) and grief counseling for all returning veterans by collecting a one million signature petition (20,000 names in each state), he helped finally cure some of his father’s demons. Initially Zaleski walked the Appalachian Trail in bare feet to meet his goals. His father asked him “What’re you punishing yourself for?” and Zaleski shared the reasons for his personal crusade.

His father started crying then, an emotion so rarely seen by Zaleski that he only initially recognized it as a “strange noise.” Zaleski’s father it turned out, had been wearing a tremendous guilt for the last 60 years, stemming from his short time in the European theater of combat: the guilt of watching men serving five years and being killed on the final days of the war when he had only served five months; the trauma of watching 12-year-old boy soldiers, “Hitler’s Wolfpack,” being shot down by his comrades; using soap made from dead Jews. His father’s revelations underscored the sense of urgency in Zaleski’s “Long Walk Home.”

“If you can get a guy (the appropriate counseling) right when he gets out he has a much better chance,” Zaleski says. Speaking of the estimated 175,000 homeless veterans in the U.S. he adds, “For a guy who put his life on a line to be under a bridge drinking his memories, that doesn’t make it for me.”

So far his progress has been minimal. Maybe four or five thousand signatures he guesses. And Zaleski doesn’t want to simply create awareness. He wants real change. “If I tell somebody their house is on fire but I don’t help them, what good is that?” Zaleski wonders. Of the politicians he’s encountered, most have written off his cause because they aren’t his representative. “They (the politicians) say nice things to my face,” Zaleski says brashly, but they eventually just ask him “are you my constituent?” and when he answers incorrectly they decline to latch on to his cause. “A soldier didn’t fight for the North or South or New Jersey or Kentucky,” Zaleski screams, “they fought for America.”

On a positive note though, Phil Roe, a Tennessee Congressman and former soldier himself, has decided that he wants to help champion Zaleski’s goals. They plan on meeting up in October when Roe can concentrate solely on Zaleski’s cause and not on the upcoming election.

But even if Roe turns out like almost all the other elected leaders he’s met, Zaleski’s not going to quit. “I question my sanity I really do. I realize if I do nothing, that’s crazier than doing something. I don’t want to pass this along to the next generation. I don’t want another mom to tell me about her lost son.”

You can follow his journey here.

738. From Fallujah to Philanthropy

2010-08-16T14:17:00.004-04:00

By: Dario DiBattista

You can see him behind his laptop at the Washington, D.C. Dupont Circle Starbucks at end of an eight hour day, crafting the framework for his entrepreneurship. Six years ago, in Fallujah, as a corporal in the D.C.-based Marine Reserve unit, Mortuary Affairs, you could see him in rubber-gloved hands, collecting the corpses of his dead comrades. “You just hoped the body you found wasn’t the one of someone you knew,” Xi Xiang tells me.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen?” I ask.

“I don’t even know how to answer that question,” he replies, his deadpan gaze hinting at a deep trauma that belies his smile and congenial manner.

It really must have been bad. Xiang and his Marines developed a dark humor to cope with their job. In a photo of his group at the time, an image titled “We’re Dead,” you can see all the mortuary Marines laying on top of each other in a row with large, beaming smiles, in one of the mass graves they prepared for the dead insurgents.

As a protocol for their job, they had to have weekly sit-ins with Navy chaplains acting as counselors. After one week of his counseling responsibilities, a new ensign had to leave the room to cry at the stories Xiang was relating to him.

The muscular, dark-crème-skinned 28-year-old’s life has never been the same since Fallujah. Days after the battle ended, his team was sent into the abandoned city to collect the remaining enemy corpses. Amongst the rubble – blasted out homes with rebar-spiked chunks, downed power lines, and mortar crushed streets – Xiang observed a toddler standing alone in the carnage. He reasoned the child’s parents were dead. He believed the boy had no future, and would probably perish, too.

“If I ever get out of this f***er,” Xiang told one of his buddies under the scarlet sunset of Mesopotamian evening, mortars cracking in the distance, “I want to do something big.”

He thought for a long time about what exactly he was going to do. He knew that he wanted to make difference, he just couldn’t decide on how. But a seven month tour gives a man a lot of time to think.

“I really believe in education,” Xiang says, “it’s all you can give to someone to help them improve their own circumstances, which in turn creates better civic responsibilities, lower crime rates, more wealth – the benefits are exponential.” His idea to help give better education to new generations is broken down in three main ways. Xiang pumps his fist and raises a new finger as he lists them, “Scholarships, incentive programs, funding scholastic programs.”

Xiang wants to use his business dream – a patent-pending software platform that selects and distributes advertisements for out-of-home digital display networks – to finance his desired philanthropy. He spends every free second on this project, when he’s not doing IT consulting for major military contractors. With a large portion of the projected profits for his venture (he hopes to have a demo ready by the end of this year), he plans to start a nonprofit organization, a “dot org” as he refers to it. “I have an insane compulsion,” Xiang says almost bouncing out of his seat. “I just want to impact the world.”

He’ll be there, clacking away at his keyboard, until he can make his dream a reality. If you’re on the Circle for a late-night latte, maybe you should shake his hand. He’s working the hardest he can to create real change for this insane world.

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2010. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

737. Beware! Combat Rage

2010-07-01T13:01:00.009-04:00

(This is a re-post from my blog at www.notalone.com/blogs, check it out!)

It still comes out sometimes. The combat rage. Usually at bars; other people get so plastered that they lose their filters. They will come to me with disrespect, being uncouth or accosting me for no real reason. I’ve learned to be a peaceful man, but don’t doubt that beneath my wild beard and extra pounds of flab, the green, clean, killer-confident Marine still lies dormant.

You wouldn’t poke a stick against a serpent would you?

It’s the hardest part of the combat experience to erase – that warrior instinct to maim or kill at a moment’s notice. It’s part of boot camp: beat up the other Marine, knock off his helmet with your pugil sticks, and get a phone call home.

It’s an aspect of weapons training: peer through your rifle’s iron-sights at the targets shaped like people; imagine what it’s like to violently end another human.

And it’s the most essential part of war: an explosion ignites while on patrol, rack your machine gun and get ready to kill.

I used to spend a lot of time at bars because I was depressed and didn’t care about life. Drinking allowed me to at least feel a burn, the flaming spirits torching my throat and charring my mind, which was something at least. Or maybe I’d just consume so much I’d never wake up again. That would have been fine, too.

Now I drink however, because I have found a calm and joyous spirit, and I love to be social and spend time with my friends. I’ll have a few brews and laugh and watch sports; or stay up late, engaging strangers with discussion of the arts, culture, or life and the lessons I’ve learned.

But I forget sometimes who I am really am – the warrior I was programmed to be – and the mental struggles of surviving battle that I may never entirely rise above.

A short, muscular man with a shaped-goatee, tried to take one of the chairs that I had reserved for my friend, as I chilled with some friends at a local trivia night. He did this even though I reminded him when asked about the chair several times already, that “Yes, my friend is coming. He’s just running late, man.”

His question, this time, was especially disrespectful. During a chug-off (if more than one team gets the correct answer, they send a representative to throw back a beer as quickly as possible to try and win the round), he had already taken another one of our chairs when we left our table to cheer our teammate.

“You sure you need this chair?” he asked yet again, jeering us, as he began to drag it away.

I slammed my palm against the table and leaned into him. “Take your hands off that f***ing chair.”

He stared back, deciding if he wanted to pursue a brawl. I’m sure he was way stronger than me – I haven’t lifted much in the years after getting out – and maybe more trained. Who knows, maybe he was even a part time lightweight cage fighter; almost everyone I meet is into martial arts these days. But I get blackout rage, this deeply ingrained caustic instinct that prevents me from feeling any pain when I’m mad. And I don’t think those who haven’t survived man versus man, life or death combat (or ever even had to consider their mortality) can really understand how that can be. Like a suicide bomber, you can’t stop that mentality. There’s no defense.

He backed off and returned to his group of friends, chair-less, and leaned against the bar. My friends stared at me awkwardly and my pulse still roared.

It was all the better for him, though. I like to think of myself as a pacifist now, but I cannot shut off my nature. It’s in moments like these that the darkness returns. I pray I’m not pushed too far in these times. They are less and less frequent the further away I get in years from Iraq and war. But I know that they’ll always remain.

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2010. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

736. Six Months Down: How Close Am I Towards Making My Goals for the Year?

2010-06-15T16:47:00.003-04:00

Six months have passed. We've laughed. We've cried. My bank account has dipped to zero. But does that mean I'm not close to making my goals for the year? Let's discuss (or actually, you just sit there and read).

---From Blog Number 719---

Goal Number One: Sell both my books. Well, yeah, I have not achieved that one, yet. I'm methodically pitching agents and have gotten some pretty good responses so far (one request for more material and several personalized rejections). My big secret I'm not telling anyone is that, supposedly, one of my mentor's agents is interested in talking to me about representation. But alas, she was supposed to call me two Mondays ago and I still haven't heard from her. Sigh.

Goal Number Two: Continue doing my very best at Hopkins. Well, I got the same grades as last semester so I'm totally on par with that one. I'm taking a full time load again this Fall.

Goal Number Three: Complete a book of poems. Um, let's not talk about this one just yet. I have poems -- just not in a book. Yeah...

Goal Number Four: Make enough for sushi with my writing. Well, I'm a paid blogger now at www.notalone.com/blogs, and I'm going to be getting recompensed for making documentaries for them -- and I'm started a podcast too! Sweet! And yeah, I'm not making money overall for my words but I've had my stuff published in The Washington Post (see two posts ago) and later this year in Connecticut Review so that's pretty tops, huh?

I don't know people! I think I'm getting there and I'm not quitting. Much love all :-)

735. Memorial Day (We Were Dreamers)

2010-05-28T14:23:00.003-04:00

Torn from our family and our lives, we volunteered to put the weight of the nation on our shoulders. Many of us didn’t know why we would ever fight, or what romantic notion would compel us to even try.

It was for God, for country, for family, for the love of a heart so many thousands of miles away; we fought.

Anything would have been better: working late at the office six days a week; driving during rush hour to some distant relative’s house; mowing the lawn on Saturday; shopping with a girl; attending a high school reunion; anything at all.

In between battles, over cigarette smoke and strumming guitars, we would talk about our plans for after we returned home: the embrace of our lover; living life as a college boy; sleeping in everyday; betting on black in Vegas. It would all be so sweet.

It was those images that kept us awake behind our machine guns after fighting for days. It was the thought of our lover’s taste that gave us the drive to search houses and vehicles while not knowing what hid inside. It was the hope of something better that helped us exist unbroken in our reality.

Oftentimes we were mindless; we had been conditioned and trained. We would give immediate obedience to lawful order. We would react by instinct and perform like automatons. But we were dreamers – we would have never joined if that weren’t the case.

And that is the tragedy of a military death in combat. The dreams of nations, the dreams of family and friends, the dreams of the individual soldier; they all fall one person.

It is a burden that those who have survived will never forget. We don’t seek pity and charity from anyone. We just ask that you remember; just like us the best you can.

Lest we forget and the American dream becomes a nightmare.

RIP: Sergeant Bill Cahir; Corporal William Salazar; Lance Corporal Michael Starr; Lance Corporal Norman Anderson; Corporal Joshua Snyder; fallen members Third Battalion Seventh Marine Regiment for OIF II

~ Semper Fi ~

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2010. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

734. Dario's Guest Blog for the Washington Post

2010-05-26T12:08:00.003-04:00

From Fallujah to Chili's: A reservist goes back to work (Excerpt)

(You can read the full blog by clicking here)

At the restaurant, right now is the highlight of our guests's week. Monday through Friday, for eight hours a day, they had to dress up, be polite to the boss and look busy behind something light and digital - how tough for them.

None of them carried a weapon instead of a Personal Digital Assistant. None of them listened to wind-tossed dog tags clanking against the rifle, boots and helmet memorial of a newly killed Marine. None of them picked up the body parts of both strangers and friends: a tossed salad served by suicide bombings.

It's March 2005; I've only been back home from my second tour for about four months and I'm heartbroken and poor and not mentally well. It's been over two months since my year-long orders to active duty ended. The military's finance system has yet to sign off on the thousands of dollars they owe me. So I'm forced to work when I'm barely capable of basic existence. On my days off, I'm too depressed to move. On my couch, I watch the days turn to darkness through the slits in the patio blinds; and when it's dark I'll finally rise to go get wasted.

I loved someone once. And she loved me. She wrote me daily in Iraq and drew me pictures. She scribbled hearts under her name and marked the envelopes with lipstick. We used to work at the same store. Now that I'm home again though, I've become an ugly man - filled with rage and sorrow, prone to excessive self-medication. I scared her away. I show up to a different Chili's now; it's too hard for me to face my failures...

733. Check Out Dario as the Featured Student Voice in The Johns Hopkins University Arts and Sciences Magazine!

2010-05-16T11:05:00.004-04:00

Here's a snippet (click here for the full story):

Which is most difficult: Waiting for war, fighting in it...or making sense of the aftermath?

These are among the issues that Marine Reservist Dario DiBattista Jr. grapples with in his memoir Go Now, You Are Forgiven. Currently a graduate student in the Advanced Academic Programs' writing program, DiBattista, 26, served two combat tours in Iraq before coming home, he says, to a life of "discord." Eventually he began to find catharsis by blogging about his experiences—work that gained him notice in The New York Times and an interview on Connecticut Public Radio.

DiBattista's story extends beyond the battlefield. Inhis memoir, for which he is currently seeking a publisher, he writes movingly about the pain of living in "constant flux"—as a college student (at Central Connecticut State University), waiter, and Reservist "on standby for war." In the end, he says, "Go Now, You Are Forgiven is about accepting responsibility for one's life, no matter how the problems came to be, and moving forward confidently and self-forgiven."

732. Don't Leave Me This Night (Ballad for Narrative Poetry Class)

2010-05-03T00:02:00.012-04:00

731. A Beautiful Passing (Profile and Biography Workshop Assignment)

2010-04-14T16:27:00.009-04:00

730. Who Among Us is Well?

2010-04-08T11:51:00.007-04:00

I wonder who among the thousands of men and women I’ve served with as brothers and sisters in combat is doing well today.

Did the PFC I served with in Kuwait, who used to have manic anxiety in our underground bunker during SCUD attacks, return home as a happy woman? Does she think about the time where we sang “Lean on Me” in our bunker after the surprise missile attack that started the war? Does she have kids and a job? Can her significant other understand why she sometimes can’t sleep (the missiles always came at night)?

Has my red-headed brother (I call him that because we looked so alike back then that this is how people referred to us, as “brothers”) had his hearing repaired from the explosion? Is there a ringing still that tortures him? I wonder if he can have his brain scraped of the images of the dead bodies he processed during his second tour as mortuary affairs.

I saw my senior drill instructor from boot camp on the Syrian border area of Iraq. He was in charge of a logistics convoy where two Marines had just died. Have you ever seen the broken face of the man who taught you how to be hard? Does this gunnery sergeant still wear that vacant look in dark rooms at the end of the day? Does he wear it over an open bottle in a bar?

I served with one of my best friends from youth in Iraq. I have a photo of the first time we encountered each other overseas: a polaroid of him chewing dip and half-smiling on a guard tower. That tower is destroyed now; three vehicle-borne suicide bombers made sure of that one year after our tour had ended. I have not seen my friend in over five years. When we saw each other then, all he saw was Iraq. I don’t like to think about him anymore. It’s easier for me to just think he’s gone.

Who among us is well?

How can we get back to the place before?

People tell me that they think I’m fine. But how can they really tell?

There are secret burdens that you will never see.

Who among us is well?

All content ©Dario DiBattista 2010. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

729. Ha Ha, Sweet, I've Been Quoted by the Associated Press

2010-04-05T21:57:00.005-04:00

Young war veterans returning home to unemployment

By KIMBERLY HEFLING (AP) – Mar 12, 2010

WASHINGTON — The unemployment rate last year for young Iraq and Afghanistan veterans hit 21.1 percent, the Labor Department said Friday, reflecting a tough obstacle combat veterans face as they make the transition home from war.

The number was well above the 16.6 percent jobless rate for non-veterans of the same ages, 18 to 24.

As of last year, 1.9 million veterans had deployed for the wars since the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks. Some have struggled with mental health problems, addictions, and homelessness as they return home. Difficulty finding work can make the adjustment that much harder.

The just-released rate for young veterans was significantly higher than the unemployment rate of young veterans in that age group of 14.1 percent in 2008.

Many of the unemployed are members of the Guard and Reserves who have deployed multiple times, said Joseph Sharpe, director of the economic division at the American Legion. Sharpe said some come home to find their jobs have been eliminated because the company has downsized. Other companies may not want to hire someone who could deploy again or will have medical appointments because of war-related health problems, he said.

"It's a horrible environment because if you're a Reservist and you're being deployed two or three times in a five-year period, you know you're less competitive," Sharpe said. "Many companies that are already hurting are reluctant to hire you and time kind of moves on once you're deployed."

One veteran looking for work is Dario DiBattista, 26, of Abingdon, Md., a graduate student who did two tours in Iraq in the Marine Reserves with a civil affairs unit. He said he's found that a lot of military skills don't readily transfer into the workplace, and in many cases, there aren't jobs to apply for even if companies want to hire veterans.

"If you don't have a strong family support system ... it's hard to get over the hump to make the decision of where you're going to live, what you do for work, where you're going to go to school, if you can even qualify to get into school," DiBattista said.

For veterans of all ages from the recent wars, the unemployment rate in 2009 was 10.2 percent. Historically, younger veterans have had more difficulty than their older counterparts finding a job because they often have less training and job experience. Some joined the military right out of high school.

One possible solution is to make it easier for veterans to transfer certifications they have for jobs they did in the military into the civilian workforce, Sharpe said.

The Labor and Veterans Affairs departments have a variety of programs addressing the problem. The hope is that one program, the Post-9/11 GI Bill rolled out last year, will be particularly effective. Under it, $78 billion is expected to be paid out in education benefits over the next decade for veterans of the recent wars to attend school.

The national unemployment rate last year was 9.3 percent, the highest since 1983.

Source: The internet, lol. Seriously, this story went everywhere.

728. Checking Out (First Person Narrative Poetry Assignment)

2010-04-05T21:49:00.007-04:00

727. Bill Hicks Would be Having a Field Day

2010-03-22T13:43:00.002-04:00

I've got some to tell to you all. Something amazing you might not know. But this is a fact. You ready? Drum roll please ....... People with Healthcare die every day. Goodnight America! Sleep tight!

726. The D.C. Girl (Third Person Narrative for Narrative Poetry Class)

2010-03-22T13:28:00.010-04:00

725. The Dario Effect

2010-02-28T12:45:00.006-05:00

Any of you who have ever spent any significant time with me know about "The Dario Effect." No, this isn't some egotistical thing about ladies fainting when I enter a room; its an inconvenience thing that affects my daily life and the lives of the people around me. Simply put, "The Dario Effect" means this: everything that I actually want and desire or need becomes unnecessarily complicated or eludes me for longer than it reasonably should.

If I'm desperate for a Red Bull in the morning, inevitably, the first couple places I go to find it will be out of stock somehow. If I'm running late for classes in D.C. (please understand that "running late" means leaving an hour early because of anticipation of "The Dario Effect"), no doubt, a tree will fall onto the highway, stopping traffic.

I know that most people will say, stop whining Dario this happens to me too -- you ain't special. But before you disregard what I'm saying, here are some recent examples from just the last week (keep in mind that this list is by no means extensive):

1. Last Sunday I went to help my friend move. No big deal; I don't mind assisting my friends, but hey, it was on Sunday -- I just wanted it to be done quickly. What happened on the way? Oh yeah, I-83 South was ostensibly shut down because of a "major accident." We had to drive on the side roads. Just like everyone else.

2. GI Bill money. I'm now well over a month into the semester and they haven't paid me the 1200 dollars they owe me. What does this mean? I'll give you a hint: it involves digging through the couch and then going to coinstar. Yeah. I'm that broke.

3. This next one I probably shouldn't complain about, but, here it goes. Two Saturdays ago, I emailed a man who was interested in hiring me. He didn't get the email. I didn't find out till Wednesday. On Wednesday he said he'd call me on Friday around 4. He called me on Friday at 6:30 and said, we'll probably get back to you again next week with something concrete. Like I said, I can't complain because I need a job, but damn, why does this process have to take so long!?

4. Yesterday, I was sick and tired after my early class. I just wanted to go home and sleep. Guess what? The guy who parked in front of me in the public garage didn't give his keys to the attendant. It took almost thirty minutes of moving around cars like Tetris pieces to be able to maneuver my car out. And then I still had an hour and a half drive because of unusual traffic. Damn.

Yep, that's the jist of it. Snap!

724. Goodbye, Beard

2010-02-14T13:58:00.006-05:00

Goodbye, Beard. I miss you already. So much. People ridiculed you when you first started sprouting. Said you'd never be anything. I believed in you. My trust was rewarded with warmth and comraderie.

You saved me once. In Pittsburgh, after the Ravens game. Some unruly Steelers fans threw a snowball at us. We turned around and your wiry red color and impressive thickness intensified my rage. You scared them away - saved the day. I'm a short man but you made me feel seven feet tall. I could do anything, with you, together. I loved you.

I feel like I've divorced a child. When I pay off my debt with what I make utilizing a more professional look, I promise to buy a bike and bring you back.

In the meantime, I apologize to everyone I've let down. And you Beard.

I want you back.

723. Sold! To World Hum. A Story from My Book

2010-02-14T13:53:00.003-05:00

Check it out if you like. I think its pretty sweet :-)

722. Check Out My Interview at Not Alone!

2010-02-02T20:36:00.006-05:00

Hello friends!

Please check out my interview about my military and coming-home experience on www.notalone.com. I promise that it will only moderately bore you :-)

Click Here!

721. You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?

2010-01-19T19:33:00.003-05:00

1. People in 2010 who still don't receive text messages on their phone. You need to accept that in these modern times, no one wants to have a real conversation with you.

2. The fact that AT&T has only made 8 million dollars for Haiti. All you have to do is send the word "Haiti" in a text to 90999 and they will donate 10 dollars to The Red Cross for you. At that current total that means only one fourth of one percent (or 0.026 percent to be exact: 800,000 people) of Americans have donated. There's 200,000 dead; a million displaced. Squeeze your wallet harder. See what comes out.

3. Vampire movies. Can someone create a new monster or creature, please? They did in Cloverfield and that movie made like 15 BA - zillion dollars.

Okay bye,

Dario

720. Elliott Smith: A Tribute

2010-01-12T00:58:00.006-05:00

So, I've been thinking a lot recently about art. Well, to be honest, I think about art all the time. It seems to be the one consistent thing in my life that I can use to channel my energy positively. I've been thinking about folk-rocker, Elliott Smith, who died over five years ago.

I was once in a dark place -- darker than I ever knew existed. There, I shamefully hid my passions and stowed away within my own self-destruction. Beyond not getting a DUI or AIDs, I didn't really accomplish anything at all for those three years of my life. I certainly didn't make anything beautiful.

Elliott Smith on the other hand, was a man who experienced challenges and personal drama that went way beyond my scruples and follies, yet still reached down to make some of the best and most powerful songs ever crafted. That is, before he committed suicide by stabbing himself in the heart.

I'm kind of embarrassed to admit, years after I first listened to his posthumous album, "From a Basement on a Hill," I still really don't know all too much about the man. I've never decided that I needed to. I discovered his music through a review in Maxim Magazine while I served in Iraq; I resolved to purchase his album when I returned. I did purchase it then, and that timing was perfect: my great three year depression started upon my return home. I've listened to that album now at least 500 times. It has impacted me to this day so much, the title of this blog takes inspiration from his lyrics off that CD.

It's hard for anyone to really say what it is about someone they love that makes them love them; it's hard to make it really tangible and describe it for others. Ben Folds tried to do this with his tribute song to Elliott and summed up pretty well the way all of us Smith fans feel:

"Elliott, man you played a fine guitar / and some dirty basketball / The songs you wrote, got me through a lot / I just wanted to tell you that / but it's too late."

After his death, dozens of myspace.com tribute pages went up in his honor. You would only have to read a dozen or so comments to know this was a man you wanted to hear. On your typical band page people say, "oh, I really like your one song," or "the drummer is cute." On the Elliott's page people said, "Elliott, your music changed my life," or "I still think about you every day, and I've never known you."

Elliott suffered from rampant depression, severe alcoholism, and heavy drug usage. Despite this, I can't think of any other artist of any medium who still loved so much; who still had such an amazing heart; who still cared about the world and others. Can you imagine just being so wrecked by poor mental health and addiction but still writing songs about how much you are frustrated with people who mistreat the lower classes of the world? On the final track of "From a Basement on a Hill," "A Distorted Reality is Now a Necessity to be Free," Elliott sings:

"You disappoint me / you people raking in on the world / God knows, why my country don't give a fuck."

That to me is an unparalleled beauty and emotion that I think makes Elliott's work just a little bit better than even the best of what I've heard or seen or felt.

I miss you too, man. I hope I can do something with art that is nearly as amazing as what you did.

"Because your candle burns too bright; I almost forgot it was twilight."

- Elliott Smith, From a Basement on a Hill

719. Yeah, So I Started Blogging Again...

2010-01-07T14:22:00.009-05:00

Greetings, reader:

This is my 719th blog in about five years (the first seven hundred are on myspace.com - I might copy and paste them to over here at some point). I stopped blogging last semester for the most part. Life was happy and graduate writing work consumed most of my time (the previous dozen or so postings on this blog are of the assignments I completed in the Fall).

Long story shortened, it's a new year so I'm blogging again. If you get a few minutes every couple days, check back if you like, and hear what I have to say. I promise to be innovative and thought-provoking, or - at very least - entertaining.

I think it's logical at this moment, my return to blogging, to simply outline some of my goals as a writer for this new year:

1. Sell both of my books. One's a memoir. Two's a novel about veterans who survive a chemical attack. Am I crazy to set this goal? I think so, but I'm close. One agency has already expressed interest in the second book and I've had a lot of interest for my memoir (interest that ultimately became rejections, but I'm doing something right to be able to stand out from all the other thousands of assholes who are trying to get books published too). Recently I sold a scene from my memoir to www.worldhum.com, which will be posted online very soon, and that credit will likely aid my goal of publication even more. That's all I've ever done with my life since leaving the Marines: take one success and exploit the hell out of it. Hmm, where did I learn to do that?

2. Continue doing my very best at Hopkins. I earned very respectable grades last semester, and I hope to maintain that momentum. It's hard down there because I'm tremendously outclassed. The majority of my peers are older than me, and they are business professionals - often times working writers - who actually have careers and real lives. I'm just some unemployed kid (sustaining myself off of the GI Bill) who shows up to class all haggardly looking with my red beard and long hair. I'm pretty sure when I speak in class everyone thinks, who the hell is this guy?

3. I hope to complete a book of poems. I want rewrite all the stream of conscious junk I've written over the years and approach them again, this time while considering line length, rhyme, and metering. I think that would be cool and rewarding.

4. I want to make some money with my words. Like enough for sushi. That would be cool.

718. Standing Order (Poetry Assignment Number Ten)

2009-12-06T22:19:00.004-05:00

This will be available to own for free on www.dariodibattista.com soon. Thank you for your patience.

Cheers,

Dario

717. Sestina (Poetry Assignment Number Nine)

2009-11-20T12:57:00.003-05:00

By: Dario DiBattista

Brief overview of the form:

In a sestina, you use the same six words as the end-words of the lines within six different six-line stanzas (sounds kind of devilish huh?). The positioning of those six words changes in each of the six different stanzas. A seventh stanza of three lines uses the six words yet again. As you can imagine, this form is pretty damn challenging. The metering is completed using an iambic pentameter grid (ie, unstressed beat then stressed beat times five for each line)

From Iraq: A Sestina to Home

I want to tell you loving friend about
The things that show my certainty of death
Here in the heartland of Sunni Iraq -
The desert region given to Marines
One year after Saddam Hussein’s steep fall,
When tough insurgents rallied up to fight

The foreign men who also yearned to fight.
You see: the War isn’t at all about
A weapon massed destruction; or the fall
Of the regime; Uday or Qusay’s death;
Uncouth and wild, whipped then unleashed Marines -
It is about shaping a new Iraq,

A warped republic framed from old Iraq.
This new nation won’t come without a fight -
A ceaseless war: Islam versus Marines.
If they could move beyond hatred about
The murdered Ali, Imam Supreme (death
By Sunnis, date Six-Sixty AD), fallen

Fighters could rest in peace with old ways fallen
Away, behind the rest of time. Iraq
Could be a land that worships life not death!
This fortune won’t congeal my friend, for fighting
Just seems to fit the fervent, mad about
Their lands becoming unpure with Marines.

I know that Jihad just angers Marines;
This War won’t stop; we’ll continue to fall...
On quiet nights, I often think about
If fighting never started in Iraq
If men didn’t know how to shoot and fight
What happens after I trade life for death?

I think the most about my life and death.
Will anyone respect a killed Marine -
Another death exchanged in futile fighting?
Will anyone remember where I fell?
What will become of a bloodied Iraq?
My friend, when my life ends, please tell about

The pointless deaths of the men who were fallen -
The dumb Marines who signed up for Iraq,
When no one knew what we should fight about.

716. On Patrol (Contemporary Nonfiction Assignment Four)

2009-11-09T00:59:00.004-05:00

This blog has been removed since this piece will be featured in the Fall 2010 Connecticut Review!!!

715. Check Out Dario on Connecticut Public Radio!

2009-11-07T11:12:00.008-05:00

Dario talks about his military experiences and how he uses writing to help him heal the wounds of war.

http://www.cpbn.org/program/where-we-live/episode/wwl-aftermath-war

The First Battle of Fallujah Begins (from my book, Go Now, You Are Forgiven)

2009-11-05T22:40:00.003-05:00

Blog post removed because of agency representation at Writer's House LLC.

From Fallujah to Chili's (from my book, Go Now, You Are Forgiven)

2009-11-05T22:36:00.004-05:00

Removed because of publication in the Washington Post! Click here. :-)

712. Hunter (Poetry Assignment Number Eight)

2009-11-04T10:50:00.004-05:00

This will be available to own for free on www.dariodibattista.com soon. Thank you for your patience.

Cheers,

Dario

711. Sonnet for Killing (Poetry Assignment Number Seven)

2009-10-29T12:14:00.005-04:00

This will be available to own for free on www.dariodibattista.com soon. Thank you for your patience.

Cheers,

Dario

710. Yusef Komunyaaka Profile (Nonfiction Techniques Assignment Number Three)

2009-10-27T15:50:00.006-04:00

By: Dario DiBattista

Words are Bigger than Yusef Komunyaaka

Yusef Komunyaaka doesn’t return my emails. This confuses me. When I met the Pulitzer Prize-winning poet two years ago at a small house at the tiny Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut, I thought I had made a positive impression. At the conclusion of his speaker’s engagement there, Yusef had even stopped me on the way out the door to shake my hand. When I queried him recently, he remembered this encounter and agreed to an interview. I am unsure why he doesn’t respond. But thinking about it now, I can piece together why.

On the day that I met Yusef, the rain fell intensely. Everyone was soaked from the short trip from the parking lot to the building. Most of the attendees were veterans; almost none of them brought umbrellas. Considering that many of them had survived monsoon seasons in ‘Nam, why should they get worried about a little rain? Yusef’s College appointed handler took a long time to introduce him -- there was a lot to introduce: a Bronze Star for service in the Army as an information specialist in Southeast Asia; three degrees, including an MA and MFA at respectable universities; a collection of eight published poetry books that boasts the Pulitzer Prize-winning Neon Vernacular; and all sorts of teaching accolades, most notably, English Professor at Princeton University.

Like a resting lion, Yusef sat hunched over while she spoke. He leaned on the large, square table, using his folded arms as a brace. Although he let his head droop, he arched his neck upward. For the next four hours, he never deviated much from this position. Even despite this odd posture, his eyes seemed to rise above the others around the table. When he finally did speak, his voice was magnetic and bold yet almost inaudible -- like a distant explosion. He didn’t want to say much; he didn’t want to be the center of attention. “All literature is about creating dialogue,” he told the group after just a couple of open questions. Implicitly he was saying, “So let us talk then.”

Fifteen years ago when he won the Pulitzer Prize, Yusef didn’t have much to say then, either. In one of two New York Times profile from the time, he didn’t even expect to become a household name, a prediction he expressed no concerns about. "I'm uncomfortable with the focus on the poet and not on the poem,” he was quoted as saying. He didn’t even want to accept praise from colleagues and students at Indiana State University where he taught at the time. He would bow timidly or gesture mild acceptance with his hand. “I’m happier about the process of writing,” he told the paper.

Yusef started that writing process for the group of us at Trinity College by recalling a vivid memory from his childhood in Louisiana. At semi-annual family engagements, his great uncle -– a professional gambler and World War One veteran -– would not be allowed inside until he obliged a certain tradition. Yusef’s grandmother would block the entrance, a cloth unfurled in her outstretched hands. When the great uncle would step up and hand over his pistol to her, she would wrap it up, put it in a box, and only then would he be allowed to enter. Inside the house, whiskey would be passed around. Intrigued by this man, a young Yusef asked him one night, ignoring the family taboo, “what he did in the war?” His great uncle, drunk from the celebration, replied with no inflection that he was responsible for burying and then exhuming the bodies of dead GIs.

“Are we responsible for what we saw?” Yusef then asked the group of veterans, his words reverberating back to World War II and forward to the Iraq War. This question ignited fierce conversation in the group. Suddenly, just like he desired, everyone had started to talk. At one point, a former Army Sergeant hugged an Army Medic. “I never got to thank one of you guys for saving my life,” he said through tears. We were all abuzz about sharing our wars, unwittingly inspired by Yusef’s stories and aura.

Today, I know that he was right. All literature is about dialogue; it’s about recollecting the past and proceeding confidently into the future. There were mistakes -- there will be mistakes -- we must learn and move on.

In July 2003, Yusef’s wife at the time, poet Reetika Vazirani, killed herself and murdered their two-year-old child. At the funeral, Yusef just sat while a friend of his read a poem that Yusef had wrote for his son. The poem began, “I am five,” an age his son would never reach. With poetry, only the words are what should be important, not the person behind them.

Despite this overwhelming loss, Yusef still teaches poetry. He still writes poems (Warhorses: Poems is his most recent book, released in paperback just this month), and he has even written a play about Hurricane Katrina called “The Deacons.” I think he doesn’t respond to my questions and queries for follow up interviews, because the world is huge, and when discovered through language, it is much bigger than the nuances of his life.

I think he would prefer it, if instead of writing this article, I just wrote some poetry, too.

All written content ©Dario DiBattista 2009. All posts are for display purposes only and not to be considered published.

709. Sonnet for a Girl (Poetry Assignment Number Six)

2009-10-21T02:17:00.004-04:00

This will be available to own for free on www.dariodibattista.com soon. Thank you for your patience.

Cheers,

Dario

708. Vampire Bites (Contemporary Nonfiction Assignment Number Three)

2009-10-19T19:53:00.003-04:00

Reworking this blog later...

707. The Contagion Update

2009-10-16T00:09:00.001-04:00

3,433 words completed as of tonight. The goal is 60,000 words or more. Wish me luck!

706. Preparing to Breach (Poetry Assignment Number Five)

2009-10-16T00:00:00.002-04:00

This will be available to own for free on www.dariodibattista.com soon. Thank you for your patience.

Cheers,

Dario

705. Seconds After a Suicide Bombing (Poetry Assignment Number Two)

2009-10-07T01:33:00.002-04:00

This will be available to own for free on www.dariodibattista.com soon. Thank you for your patience.

Cheers,

Dario

704. The Hill

2009-10-06T22:29:00.004-04:00

This personal essay is available to own for free on www.dariodibattista.com!

Cheers,

Dario

703. Nurturing Death (Contemporary Nonfiction Assignment Number Two)

2009-10-01T20:07:00.003-04:00

This is an earlier version of "A Beautiful Passing", a profile of a female mortician. This will be available to own for free on www.dariodibattista.com soon. Thank you for your patience.

Cheers,

Dario

702. First Blogger Blog! The Turret Gunner Approaches (Poetry Assignment Number Three)

2009-10-01T19:46:00.002-04:00

This poem sucked. So I deleted it. Never to return.